


Stay

by Severina



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Community: qaf_challenges
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-21
Updated: 2007-08-21
Packaged: 2017-10-10 11:32:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/99281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brian remembers the way the dust covers billowed on the floor. The exact shade of the light filtering in on the floorboards. He remembers the way Justin's hair fell across his brow, and the particular way his eyes had lit up with happiness. He doesn't think he's seen that exact look since.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay

**Author's Note:**

> Post Season Five  
> Written for LJ's QaF_Challenges community

There's something soothing, Brian tells himself, about being alone in the office late at night. Nothing but the clunk of the furnace periodically cycling on to disturb the silence. No interruptions. Nothing to disrupt his concentration.

He hunches over the computer, considers the screen. Touches the keypad once. He scowls.

When the phone rings, he lets his hand hover over the receiver and waits for a second ring. A third. Then he picks up.

"So," he answers, "how was it?"

"It was fucking amazing!" Justin laughs into the phone. The sound of music and revelry almost drowns him out, but Brian thinks he'd hear him anywhere, anytime. "I sold _all ten_. All fucking ten on opening night!"

Brian leans back in his chair. He never had a doubt that Justin could make it. On his own. He's a tough little bastard. "Congratulations."

"And there's probably commissions coming in for at least four more," Justin crows. "Brian, can you fucking believe it?"

"I can fucking believe it," Brian repeats. "Didn't I tell you you'd be a big fat fucking success?"

"You also told me I was an annoying little twat," Justin laughs.

"I strive to speak the truth at all times," Brian says.

"It's just too bad you couldn't make it."

Brian sighs, pretends not to hear the disappointment in Justin's voice. Knows it's for the best. "I'm up to my balls -- make that ball -- in work for the new Dasani campaign."

"I know," Justin says quickly. "Listen, I'll call you tomorrow with all the details. Leo's taken me out to celebrate tonight."

Brian cocks a brow. "Is he hot?"

"He's my agent!"

"And your point?"

"Brian."

"You're right, Sunshine," Brian drawls. "Never mix business with pleasure. And never fuck someone you work with."

"Right," Justin says. "Unless he's an annoying little twat."

Brian leans back. Stares at the ceiling and remembers bright glossy posters spread on the floor, the sharp tang of glue under Justin's fingernails. Remembers Justin wild-eyed, proud. Imagines him looking that way right this very moment.

"I gotta go," Justin says. "Later."

"Later," Brian says. But he waits until Justin has disconnected before placing the receiver gently back onto its cradle. He sits in the cold dark office, breathing in the silence.

Then he reaches out a hand to turn off the computer. The solitaire game flickers once, briefly, before it goes out.

* * *

The diner is crowded and noisy, and there are a dozen other restaurants within walking distance of Kinnetik where Brian would rather spend his lunch hour. But the diner is also where Michael wanted to meet, and since he and Michael have been stuck on 'catch you later' mode for almost three weeks, Brian agrees to shoulder the burden of roadhouse fries as lunch.

He's grateful that Kiki takes their order. He's almost halfway through his mound of fries -- and has mostly tuned out Michael's long-winded story about the delayed delivery of the new _Buffy_ comic that apparently almost caused some sort of disaster of catastrophic proportions -- before his luck runs out.

The overwhelming scent of juicy fruit gives him his only warning.

"When's Sunshine's flight getting in?"

Brian blinks. "How the fuck should I know?"

"Aren't you picking him up at the airport?" Debbie squeaks. "Listen, if you're planning on making him take the train, you little assho--"

"Calm down, Deb," Brian says mildly. "He wants to rent a car. Seems our returning wunderkind doesn't want to be trapped by my arbitrary impulses," he continues. "Prey to my reckless whimsy."

"Boy Wonder doesn't want to be trapped at Wayne Manor and prey to your dick, you mean," Michael snickers.

"Who wouldn't want _that_, Mikey?"

"Well," Debbie huffs, "you make sure the two of you are at my place at seven sharp. It's been too long since I've seen that boy. He's supposed to come home for every special occasion, and where has he been?"

"Working," Brian says shortly.

Debbie shakes her head. "He should have been home for Mothers Day!"

"At least it doesn't look like that'll be a worry for too much longer," Michael puts in. "Leo says he won't have to spend so much time networking any more."

Brian grimaces. "What the fuck does Leo know?"

"He _is_ his agent," Michael says. "Justin says that Leo says that word of mouth on this show will do a lot of the work."

"There's no such thing as an overnight success," Brian counters. "He'll be working his ass off for the next ten years, and then, if he's lucky, he'll be clearing just enough not to worry about the electricity being shut off or the rent not getting paid."

"Jesus, somebody's a gloomy gus," Deb grouses.

"I prefer to say 'realistic'."

"I don't think Leo means that he won't have to work hard," Michael says. "He just won't have to work hard in New York."

"New York is where the action is."

"True," Michael nods, "but Leo says--"

"I don't give a fuck," Brian grits out, "what Leo says." He stands and pulls a twenty out of his pocket, slaps it on the table.

Debbie cracks her gum. "Leaving so soon?"

"I'm late for my shiatsu," Brian says shortly. "See ya, Mikey."

He calls the office only to remind Cynthia that he'll be out the rest of the day, then pushes the speed limit by twenty all the way back to the house. Where he paces. Stands at the window. Paces some more.

It seems every step on the old floorboards sends up a rusty creak that reverberates through his spine. The old empty house settles around him like a shroud.

He finally breathes a sigh of relief when Justin's rented 4x4 pulls into the driveway just a little before five p.m.

Fucker's plane was supposed to arrive at one.

* * *

"You know," Justin says later that night, when they have tucked the leftover zucchini roll in the fridge and taken their beers into the living room, "it's not like I don't appreciate Deb's… enthusiasm."

"Hmmm."

"But honestly, these 'Congratulations Sunshine' dinners are getting kind of embarrassing."

"Getting?" Brian smirks and pulls Justin closer, presses his lips to his brow.

"I know she means well--"

"She's proud of you," Brian says simply. He lets go to stride to the mantle, where he raises his bottle in salute. "You're taking New York by storm."

"Hardly," Justin smiles. "But… I'm doing okay. _More_ than okay." He takes a breath, sets his own beer on the coffee table. "Which leads me to something I've been wanting to talk to you about."

"Let me guess," Brian interrupts. "_Leo_ says that you're doing so well that you can now just drop everything and run back to Pittsburgh."

Justin's jaw sets. "Brian."

"Leave your flourishing career and everything you've been working toward for three fucking years, and for what? The Pitts. Sunday brunches at Deb's and tofu bean sprouts at the Novotny-Bruckners every other Tuesday."

"I'm not _leaving_ anything," Justin says. "I'm _gaining_ something."

Brain rages on, oblivious. "For what? Commitment? Romance?" He sneers. "_Love_?"

"This is what I want! I thought it was what you wanted. I thought you'd be happy that I was coming home!"

"What the fuck does my happiness have to do with anything?"

"You stood here," Justin bites out, "and asked me to marry you. You stood here, on this very fucking spot, and told me that you would do anything for me. Was that a lie?"

Brian remembers the way the dust covers billowed on the floor. The exact shade of the light filtering in on the floorboards. He remembers the way Justin's hair fell across his brow, and the particular way his eyes had lit up with happiness. He doesn't think he's seen that exact look since. May never again.

"Come on," Justin rails. "You always speak the truth. Was it?"

The wood stacked next to the fireplace was old and rotted in places, but it had made a halfway decent fire. He'd stripped Justin slowly, inch by precious inch, pressing his lips to each sliver of skin as it was revealed. He'd said his vows then, with lips and tongue and hands.

"I guess that's my answer," Justin says.

Justin turns to go. And Brian thinks he's never seen Justin's face take on that particular pinch of sorrow, either.

He imagines endless nights of silence and deep cold bone-weary darkness and the ticking of the clock for company. Imagines never stroking his fingers through Justin's hair, never hearing Justin's voice just when a campaign is going to shit. Imagines not being there at Justin's first solo show, not seeing the awestruck look on his face when he earns his first five-digit commission.

"Justin," he says.

Justin keeps walking.

He imagines never having to pretend that he's perfectly okay with Justin making it on his own in fucking New York. Imagines Saturday nights with Justin at his side at Babylon and Tuesday night tofu bean sprouts at the Novotny-Bruckners. Imagines Justin commuting to New York once a month, twice, and reunions each time he gets home. Imagines actually sharing the experience of Justin taking New York by storm.

"Please," he says.

He imagines doing anything. Being anything.

He imagines happiness.

And he has crossed the room, snagged at Justin's arm, shirt, whatever he can reach. He takes a breath, and his throat feels wet and raw.

"Stay," he says.


End file.
